Now, despite some inherent immaturity (I laugh uproariously at movies like "Team America" and "40 Year Old Virgin"), like most young women of 21, I prefer to think of myself as adult. I live on my own (not counting one miniature roommate), I am relatively self-sufficient (considering that I live off of scholarship money), and I don't have to ask for permisison to do things (oh, joy of my "adult" life). As to physical appearance, these days I get mistaken more often for an under-21 rather than an under-18 (although that does happen to me still). However, my maturity is apparently not at all a sure thing, and is indeed very doubtful to a certain 2-year-old.
Today, after lunch and our Monday trip to the grocery store (which will lead me to another story), E and I went to the park. A park with 2 delightful slides, one a tube slide and the other open. After happily partaking of both "whee's", E decided that I needed to go down the tube slide. I explained that I was too "big" to go down that slide (read: I didn't want my hair to get all static-y). My sweet-eyed son, while regarding me from his lofty position of wisdom at the top of the playground, asked doubtfully, "You're too old? You're almost grown up?" To fall from the heights of age so rapidly is painful. And requires much laughter.
I forgot to pay for E's donut at the store. I don't really know how it happened, because he has one every time we go (it's our secret not-quite-bribe, don't tell anyone), and he had chocolate adorably smeared across his mouth before I attacked it with a handy dandy wipe...Oh, wait, I know, it was because I waited in line with $24.83 worth of groceries for HALF A FREAKING HOUR. Moral of the story: Wal-Mart, if you don't want shoplifters, first of all, don't make distracted mothers have to remember that they bought a single donut, and second of all, don't make the same mothers have to wait in line for more minutes than the amount of money that they spend. Because it will just fry their brains and make it even less likely that they will remember that ring of yeast (another note: don't call them that, it sounds like a "female problem") when they finally get to the cashier. (P.S. Don't worry, crazies, I'll pay my $0.44 next week during the Monday trip. Sheesh.)
Last night we went to the Newman Center on campus for Mass. Halfway through the homily, the sharp-eyed child sitting on my lap informed me of the presence of a black beetle under the kneeler for our pew. I assured my strapping lad that it was dead and couldn't hurt him. He accepted this, but later, the bug apparently became too much for him to handle. During the Eucharistic Prayer, after the bells had been rung for the Transfiguration of the bread (i.e., during one of the most silent parts of the service), my solemn little religious frantically stage-whispered: "I don't like that bug anymore, mommy." Quickly tuning into the muffled giggles of the college students around him, he then proceeded to repeat his statement more firmly and decisively, as if to say "Woman, my mind is made up, and you need to remove that insect this minute." How do you administer discipline not only to your child but to all the children around him? Especially when those children are as old as you are?!?!
My slightly-insane life and times
2/26/06
Anti-stereotypical
This was originally on my other blog, but I've moved it, because this is where it belongs, and I'm all for organization:
I won't sugar-coat it for you: being a student and a single mom is tough. Frankly, at times it tends to just plain suck. Your life can feel completely regimented, and like the spontaneity of the collegiate experience is passing you by. You can never just jaunt off to a party at last-minute's notice. You can't swing by the bar on your way home from a Friday night date. Evening meetings are a no-no, and sick days are never possible. Your image of yourself as an up-and-coming next-generation-er are tarnished by the fact that you carry wipes, diapers, and Cheerios wherever you go. You never seem to have a conversation that is 100% focused on the person you are speaking with (because your son has turned your chic pad into a gymnasium), and the amount of sleep you get could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
The inconveniences are compounded when you do everything by yourself. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a very supportive family who is never slow to offer assistance. But the daily disciplines and trials can be hard to bear, and I sometimes wish I had someone here to at least suffer alongside! I constantly worry about whether my son will have "daddy" issues when he grows up, whether I am spending enough time with him, whether he has strong male influences in his life, whether I am spoiling him with just one set of disciplinary tactics, whether he will resent me for being in school while he is small. The worries and loads can be incredibly tiring, and sometimes I find myself wallowing in self-pity and depression.
But then I am swiftly snapped back to reality and sanity by the spontaneous kiss from a child who thinks I am the end-all and be-all, who calls only for me when he wakes up in the middle of the night. By the never-ending party that is life with a small child: laughter, spills, games and fun. By the realization that I would rather be at home, reading a good book and listening to my son sing himself to sleep, than at a crowded movie theater, spending $8 for a movie I will forget in a month. I will be able to raise a son with a less idealized and more realistic image of women, and the world will have one more man who is comfortable around women and who respects them as equals. And the one thing that always humbles me and brings me back to the light that is my existence, is the realization that mine is the only life I would ever choose. And I would choose it for the Cheerios, the live-in gym, and the sweet, sweet scent of a sleeping child.
I won't sugar-coat it for you: being a student and a single mom is tough. Frankly, at times it tends to just plain suck. Your life can feel completely regimented, and like the spontaneity of the collegiate experience is passing you by. You can never just jaunt off to a party at last-minute's notice. You can't swing by the bar on your way home from a Friday night date. Evening meetings are a no-no, and sick days are never possible. Your image of yourself as an up-and-coming next-generation-er are tarnished by the fact that you carry wipes, diapers, and Cheerios wherever you go. You never seem to have a conversation that is 100% focused on the person you are speaking with (because your son has turned your chic pad into a gymnasium), and the amount of sleep you get could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
The inconveniences are compounded when you do everything by yourself. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a very supportive family who is never slow to offer assistance. But the daily disciplines and trials can be hard to bear, and I sometimes wish I had someone here to at least suffer alongside! I constantly worry about whether my son will have "daddy" issues when he grows up, whether I am spending enough time with him, whether he has strong male influences in his life, whether I am spoiling him with just one set of disciplinary tactics, whether he will resent me for being in school while he is small. The worries and loads can be incredibly tiring, and sometimes I find myself wallowing in self-pity and depression.
But then I am swiftly snapped back to reality and sanity by the spontaneous kiss from a child who thinks I am the end-all and be-all, who calls only for me when he wakes up in the middle of the night. By the never-ending party that is life with a small child: laughter, spills, games and fun. By the realization that I would rather be at home, reading a good book and listening to my son sing himself to sleep, than at a crowded movie theater, spending $8 for a movie I will forget in a month. I will be able to raise a son with a less idealized and more realistic image of women, and the world will have one more man who is comfortable around women and who respects them as equals. And the one thing that always humbles me and brings me back to the light that is my existence, is the realization that mine is the only life I would ever choose. And I would choose it for the Cheerios, the live-in gym, and the sweet, sweet scent of a sleeping child.
Snakes and Snails
I decided that, what with the amount of cute stuff that I have to share about my small son, I might as well create a separate blog for it! Now I can cruise the mommy blogs and not feel quite as creepy!
To start with, the former title of this blog (Q: What Are Little Boys Made Of?). Before my own little blue bundle of joy came along, I always agreed with that old rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice, and little boys being made of snails and puppy dogs' tails. However, I've since come to the conclusion that no girl-child could ever be quite as particularly sweet as this all-male being that is asleep in the next room. I hope that it's a quality that I can cultivate, or, as it may be, just not ruin entirely.
Today's cuteness item: At dinner, we were eating "noodle soup" and after asking for and receiving a 2nd helping, he looked into his bowl and exclaimed angrily, "How did these noodles get into my plate?!?!"
To start with, the former title of this blog (Q: What Are Little Boys Made Of?). Before my own little blue bundle of joy came along, I always agreed with that old rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice, and little boys being made of snails and puppy dogs' tails. However, I've since come to the conclusion that no girl-child could ever be quite as particularly sweet as this all-male being that is asleep in the next room. I hope that it's a quality that I can cultivate, or, as it may be, just not ruin entirely.
Today's cuteness item: At dinner, we were eating "noodle soup" and after asking for and receiving a 2nd helping, he looked into his bowl and exclaimed angrily, "How did these noodles get into my plate?!?!"
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